A Tender Tale of Sweeney Todd
by Bamfwriter
Summary: SLASH SLASH SLASH, and by SLASH I mean homosexuality, not razors. This is a SLASH story with SweeneyAnthony, and it tells the story of what might have happened when Sweeney was rescued from the sea by young Anthony.


Author's Notes

OK, why did I write this? I don't for a minute believe this really happened. I wrote this for two reasons:

First, I wanted to have the first Sweeney Todd slash story on FF Dot Net.

Second, having a Sweeney Todd story marked SLASH makes me LOL. Slash, get it? Slash? It's like with a raz... you know what, just read it.

* * *

"MAN OVERBOARD!"

The cry from the crow's nest jolted Anthony out of his daydreams, and he joined his shipmates as they all rushed toward the bow. He reached the rail first, and leaned over, trying to get a better look.

A tiny craft, if it could even be called such, bobbed pitifully on the waves. A small sail, tatted together from a myriad of scraps, fluttered in the breeze. The fabric had been rent nearly in two, most likely, Anthony thought, from the stormy gales that had buffeted and tossed his ship for the past few nights.

In the bottom of the crudely-made boat lay a mottled pile of black and white, clearly a human figured, bundled against the cold sea air. The craft lay dangerously low in the water, and even as Anthony watched, the stern of the tiny vessel submerged, and the helpless figure was dragged down with it.

"Man the lifeboats! It's going down!" came a cry from somewhere. Anthony watched the forlorn tatters of sail sink quietly below the surface. The boats would be too late. He had to act.

Stripping off his coat and boots, he leaped up onto the rail. Hands clutched at him, friends' voices crying out against his folly, but he fixed his attention on the dark shadow just below the surface of the green water. He dove in.

The coldness of the water was a shock, and he nearly lost his air. But ahead of him through the clear water he saw the tiny ramshackle craft sinking away, and above it, a cloud of black cloth... and a white hand. He kicked himself forward, grasped the icy limb, and pulled upward.

From the suffocating folds of black came the body of a slim man, extraordinarily pale, and completely unmoving. Anthony wrapped his arm around the stranger's waist, and struggled to the surface.

* * *

A few minutes later, Anthony was hurriedly clearing away the clutter from the navigator's desk. Maps and compasses were quickly shifted, lamps were lit, and a steaming kettle seemed to materialize out of the very air. Anthony turned, moved aside as Simmons, the burly ship's cook, moved carefully into the room. In his arms he carried the limp body of the rescued man. His great arms laid the gaunt body out on the desk, and Anthony instinctively reached out to cradle the dark-haired head, and ease it down gently.

The ship's doctor, Flemming, hovered over the newly-found patient, and began examining him.

"Could some of you step out, please?" he asked, in his gentle voice.

With a great shuffling and muttering, the majority of the bodies cramming the small room began to file out. Anthony stayed where he was, unwilling to leave his charge.

Flemming glanced up at Anthony, then at the captain. Captain Lloyd nodded to him to carry on, clearly indicating that the young first mate had earned the right to be present.

As the doctor unbuttoned the stranger's sodden vest and shirt, Anthony leaned closer, studying the still face. The man before him looked to be perhaps thirty-five or forty years of age. His skin was unnaturally pale, and around his eyes was a dark tinge that made Anthony think of frostbite. The man's jawline was as sharp as a knife's blade, his bow-shaped lips full, and his high, graceful, dark brows gave him a look of elegance. The young sailor found himself fascinated by that face...

"Lucky to be alive," muttered the doctor. "In need of water and food, but most of all warmth. His body's too cold to warm itself." Flemming looked up at the captain, then at Anthony. "I'll need help."

The captain nodded, and looked down at his first mate. "I must return topside. I will leave young Mr. Hope here to assist." With that, he patted Anthony on the shoulder, and exited.

"Well, Mr. Hope," the doctor said with a grin, "You may well regret jumping in to save this poor devil before the night's out." He chuckled as he began removing the still-insensate stranger's clothing.

"Wh-why is that, sir?" Anthony asked, a bit nervously. His eyes grew wider as the doctor began unfastening their patient's trousers. Despite his reservations, though, he stepped forward when the doctor motioned to him. Together, he and the doctor stripped the pale man bare, and the young sailor tried to avert his eyes. But when the doctor began to gather their guest into his arms, Anthony was quick to assist.

"Onto the blankets," the doctor muttered through clenched teeth.

As slim and gaunt as their charge was, he was solidly-built, and Anthony braced himself as he and Flemming eased him down upon the nest of blankets. They swaddled him in, and then Flemming gestured to Anthony.

"Strip," he ordered. "Down to the skin, please, boy."

Anthony gawked. "D-do what, sir?"

"Your clothes!" the doctor snapped impatiently. "Remove your clothes. I need you to warm him with the heat of your own body."

Anthony turned scarlet, and began to slowly unbutton his shirt.

Fleming made a noise of irritation. "Look, son, if you don't care about saving the man's life, why did you jump in after him to begin with? Quickly, quickly, he doesn't have time for your modesty!"

Closing his eyes, and telling himself that he was acting as any good Christian man would, Anthony rapidly stripped down to the skin. A moment later, per the doctor's direction, he was sliding under the blankets beside the pale man. He pulled the slim body against his own, gasping at the coldness of the stranger's flesh, wondering how something so cold and so pale still lived. He tried to position himself so that as much of his own skin was in contact with that pale flesh.

Flemming continued to hover over them, tucking the blankets in more tightly around them, felling the brow of the unconscious man, checking his pulse. He nodded, and straightened up.

"I need to go and fetch some supplies," he said. He pointed a long finger at Anthony, who was all but hidden in the folds of blanket. "You leave your inhibitions outside, Anthony. I want you to stay close and tight against his body until I return. His life is in your hands." With that, the doctor left, shutting the door behind him.

As he lay there, Anthony began to rub his hands over the cold skin that stuck clammily to his, trying to spread the warmth. As he passed one hand across the stranger's chest, he felt a soft rumble, and the bow-shaped lips issued a faint moan. Anthony's heart began to race, and he moved one hand to cradle the sharp jaw, turning the peaceful face toward him.

"Sir?" he breathed quietly, absently brushing a few damp, dark, wild curls back from the smooth brow. "Sir, can you hear me?"

"Mmm...c-c-cold...," came the tiny whimper in reply.

"I know sir," Anthony said, rubbing his hands over the other's man's flesh more briskly, forgetting his embarrassment. He was gladdened beyond measure by the welcome signs of life in his charge. Surely a man who spoke was a man who would live?

"S-s-so cold...," the raw voice lamented again.

Anthony raised himself up on one elbow, pulling the blankets up and tucking them around the pale man's chin. He looked for the doctor, wondering if he should go and fetch him, or stay and tend to his patient. He remembered his flask, then, and reached over to his pile of discarded clothing, finding the small silver vessel in his trouser's pocket. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it aside, and moved into a sitting position. With the utmost care and gentleness, he lifted the sodden, wild-haired head, and held the mouth of the flask to the bow-shaped lips.

The scent of the strong spirits had a rejuvenating effect on the stranger, and his eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. The lips parted, and Anthony tipped the flask up, letting a small amount of the amber liquid flow out. But the strange man was too weak, or too befuddled by cold to drink.

Glancing again toward the cabin door, Anthony pondered. After hesitating only a moment, he tipped the flask into his own mouth, but did not swallow. Leaning down, he raised the wet head, and gently laid his lips against those of his charge, letting the brandy seep, drop by precious drop, into the other man's mouth.

The pale throat swallowed... swallowed... swallowed, then spasmed. Anthony quickly swallowed the rest of the fluid, and hastily sat the older man up as he began to cough. He gently clapped him on the back, anxiously, unconsciously pulling him closer. As the spasms subsided, Anthony moved to cradle him in his arms, and pulled the blankets up to cover more of the pale, lithe body.

A minute passed before the dark-tinged eyes fluttered open, and a pair of pitch-black orbs blearily found their way to Anthony's face. "Who...?"

Anthony smiled a little. "You don't know me, sir," he began. "I am Anthony Hope, first mate on the HMS Bountiful. We found you adrift."

"I see," said the stranger, calmly. "And why have I been left in your care?" The black eyes now began to track around, taking in the surroundings. "Rather than a doctor's?" The pale brow furrowed as the man realized he was naked, and in the arms of another naked man.

"Well," Anthony began, blushing again as the stranger clearly became more aware of his surroundings. "The doctor, Flemming, he's gone to fetch some supplies, sir. He'll be back soon. He told me to keep you warm until he returned."

The black eyes swung up to settle on Anthony's face again, and the young man felt a rush of heat blossom from his toes, up through his legs, to settle on his groin. The barest hint of a sly grin twitched at the corners of the stranger's mouth, and the dark eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. The man was obviously aware of Anthony's discomfort, and even, it seemed, amused by it.

"Keep me warm, eh?" the voice was like molten honey. "Think you can do any better than you are, now?"

One of the stranger's pale hands slid up under the blanket, and cold fingers trailed over Anthony's bare thigh.

Anthony gasped like a landed fish, and his mouth tried to form a word, a curse, an outburst, anything. The cold fingers were exploring him now, twining around his most private, secret places. His mind was screaming at him that this was wrong, it was evil and dirty, unnatural. But his lips tingled and burned, yearning for the lips on the face before him.

Closing his eyes, and shutting out his disapproving mind, Anthony leaned down and kissed the man he had rescued. Their tongues did gentle battle, teeth captured a lip, nibbled, released it. He felt his own mouth enfolded by cold lips, a stranger's tongue explored his palate. Almost against his will, Anthony felt his hands move to seize two fistfuls of wild black hair, to pull that face and that mouth ever closer...

"Hope? HOPE!"

With a gasp, Anthony jolted. Flemming was there, shaking him furiously by the shoulder.

"Good God, son, what's wrong with you?" the doctor demanded angrily.

Anthony's face burned with shame, and he knew there was no way to explain himself. "I-I-I...," he stammered.

"You fell asleep, boy! My God, you could have cost two lives, your and his!" Flemming was slapping at the pale stranger's cheeks now, trying to rouse him.

It took Anthony several long moment to realize he was still swaddled up with the stranger, who was still unconscious. He had fallen asleep, and dreamed... What a very strange dream, indeed.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the doctor was shaking the rescued man by the shoulder, now.

With a moan, the man slowly opened his eyes. And they were as black and deep as Anthony had dreamed. They moved about the room, taking everything in, before settling on Anthony's face.

"Hello," Anthony said softly, smiling down at him. "I'm Anthony Hope, sir, and you were rescued from the sea by the HMS Bountiful."

"A pleasure," croaked the older man.

"What is your name, sir?" asked Dr. Flemming, gently checking his patient's pulse.

"Bar...Todd," came the hesitant reply.

"Well, Mr. Barthod...," began Anthony. But the other man shook his head, and chuckled softly, those inky eyes crinkling in mirth.

"No, Todd. Todd. My name... is Sweeney Todd."

A pale hand slipped from beneath the blankets, and Anthony clasped it in his own. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Todd."

"And you," replied Sweeney. "Now then, where can a man get a shave around here?"

THE END


End file.
